


Touch (Sweet Touch)

by Hannigrammatic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Emotional, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-08-07 06:13:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7703620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannigrammatic/pseuds/Hannigrammatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starvation of touch can be just as debilitating as a lack of nourishment. (or, Hannibal is distant after the fall, and Will misses him in more ways than he has words for.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch (Sweet Touch)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [itsbeautiful](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsbeautiful/gifts).



> My submission for Hannibalcreative's #ItsStillBeautiful, and a gift for [itsbeautiful](http://archiveofourown.org/users/itsbeautiful/pseuds/itsbeautiful) ♥ Because you are the best, quite literally! Thank you for the constant smiles!

He breaks the surface and half-chokes on freezing salt water, and is barreled over by merciless waves seconds after taking in a single mouthful of air. His body is cold and stiff and won't move as he wants to, and he sinks like a rock tossed and failed to skip over the unruly surface above. There’s a vague collection of memories pressing against the back of of his eyelids, of the fight, both impossibly long and drawn out and over in seconds, the dragon dead and the blood -the blood, black and everywhere and staining both of them as they drew close and-

Will wakes up drenched in sweat. It’s nothing new. He stumbles out of bed and staggers into the bathroom, opting to leave the lights off. The water runs cold, but not as cold as the Atlantic, and he splashes his face and hair and neck and shuts his eyes tight as he listens. Another footstep, and his bedroom door creaks open. Will fights a loud sigh bubbling up into his chest and makes his way out of the bathroom to find Hannibal lingering in the doorway expectantly. Just as he always was.

“Come in,” Will grunts, inviting the man in because he knows he won't dare enter without permission.

It’s strange, but he honestly can’t reconcile the timid creature before him with the ruthless monster that had stirred his brains into craziness and set him loose to ruin his own life (and others’). It almost angers him to see the submissive set in broad shoulders and the lowered eyes as Hannibal takes a few steps forward, bringing him closer and yet still too far away to touch. The room is silent except for the quietest pitter-patter of his still wet face, the water dripping from his chin and jaw to hit the hardwood floor below where it didn’t sink into his undershirt.

“Closer,” Will sighs loudly.

Hannibal inhales brokenly, and then obeys, until he’s an arm's-length away. Maroon eyes settle somewhere between his eyes and his nose, but don’t meet his own. Will wonders why the man bothers coming here when he wakes from a nightmare. And yet, each time it happens, there’s Hannibal shyly seeking to -what? Comfort? The man’s uncertainty does nothing other than set Will’s anxiety off, and it’s no different tonight.

“Hannibal, what are you doing here?” he asks softly, too tired to scold the man.

They are both of them not at their strongest, though they’ve recovered nicely in the many many weeks following that fateful night on the bluff. Will’s face still hurts frequently, though he doesn’t allow it to prevent him from speaking. Late at night he tongues the scar from the inside of his mouth, where he’d been stabbed by Francis Dolarhyde -and during the day he tries to imagine it’s not even there, though it stings on occasion when he eats.

“I wished to see if you were alright,” Hannibal murmurs, and then he gestures blandly at Will’s face. “Shall I get you a towel?”

Will acknowledges his wet face once more, where it’s beginning to dry slowly now, and the air hitting it feels cold. He swallows around a biting answer of ‘no you shall not’ and just shakes his head, using his shirt to wipe his face dry instead. Hannibal exhales soundly and then nods as if in response to the words Will didn’t speak. He turns to leave, but Will’s stomach feels tight and pained and his heart is hammering away behind his ribcage suddenly at the thought of the man leaving. He reaches out and clamps his hand around Hannibal’s wrist and _pulls_.

(Unbalanced, Hannibal nearly falls against him, and while he manages to catch himself at the last second, they are both close now, so so close that their chests are touching and Will’s breath is hitting his face and he can’t handle it. Not right now. He instinctively attempts to shake his hand free and fails when Will’s clasp tightens.)

“Don’t leave,” Will demands.

He’s hoping for Hannibal’s strange submissive attitude to linger then. He’s uncertain why his heart is racing and his grip firms even more, until Hannibal’s mouth twitches with displeasure at the sting of pain, and the men stare each other down.

“Please,” Will’s brows raise and without the tiny smirk it’s not the same as before, when everything was being arranged to see Hannibal loose from prison -when Will wanted his help and wanted him-

“Let go,” Hannibal growls. 

The older man forces his arm away, and Will’s breath hiccups in shock as he finds his own hand dislodged. Hannibal’s face reads angry and scared and he’s trying to determine what’s going on when he sees that the man’s eyes are red-rimmed as if he’d been crying. Or was going to or was trying not to. He reaches out and finds a large hand planted in the center of his chest.

“No,” the older man says firmly. 

He pushes Will away and leaves the room, leaves the younger man standing there feeling as if he’d just broken out of the water once more, just like in his dream -and the wave that buries him under the freezing depths is Hannibal this time.

*

At breakfast, they’re silent, as they always are. They share the space in this place that isn’t home as if they are both ghosts, going about their day and once in a while passing through each other. Will sips at his steaming coffee and stares at the newspaper Hannibal is hiding behind. Anger is a hot, heavy rock in his gut because he didn’t sleep again after last night, when the other had strode out of the room. Confusion had settled over his shoulders like a shroud instead -again. Will sets his mug down and tears the newspaper away from Hannibal’s hands.

“Look at me!” he exclaims. 

Maroon eyes focus on his own for a split-second, and they are filled with an emptiness that corners Will and turns his insides to ice. 

(Hannibal can’t help when his heart skips a beat. He takes in the muddled emotions shining out of bright blue eyes, and he notices the exact second that Will realizes that he’s not the only one suffering after the fall.)

Will’s hand skitters across the table and touches Hannibal’s hand, which predictably pulls away as if burned. Hurt stabs the younger man’s heart. 

“Please stop that,” he says louder than he intended.

“Stop what?” Hannibal asks, voice devoid of discernible emotion.

The older man recovers his newspaper and unfolds it, hiding his face once more. Will sits back and stares at the tiny words and pictures of people living lives that aren’t a horrible monotony of silence, uncertainty, and a man that had once set his brain afire but who had embraced him on the rocks before Will had eased them over into death.

Or what should have been.

*

He corners Hannibal in the hallway later that day and presses him to the wall and dares him to break away because it would require force and _touch_. 

(Hannibal’s heart jumps and his lungs fill with breath that he wants to scream out. He keeps his hands securely at his sides and doesn’t move an inch.)

“Do it,” Will goads. 

Hannibal looks away and the younger man’s resolve breaks. He draws away and punches the man in the face, sending him off balance but not off his feet. Strong hands catch themselves on the wall and Hannibal steadies himself. Will gives him a second before he strikes again, and he smirks victoriously when his fist is caught and held tightly. He’s shoved away once more, however, Hannibal’s own resolve not quite so broken.

“Don’t you fucking dare walk away from me,” Will hisses as he follows the man who is doing just that. 

Before the door can close in his face, Will inserts himself into it and forces it open wide, chasing Hannibal into his place of privacy and tackling him to the ground. They land with a thump that hurts both of their stiff, tense, bodies.

“Stop it,” Will growls into Hannibal’s mouth.

(Hannibal can’t hold back the roar that rips out of him as he flips the younger man off of him and settles on top of him. He presses himself bodily against the other, wraps his fingers around a heaving throat, and then he’s kissing Will with teeth and tongue, stealing his breath and squeezing his hand in fits and bursts of emotion.)

Will concedes to the hand around his throat and wraps his arms around as much of Hannibal as he can reach. He does the same with his legs as he heaves himself into the body above him. He grips short strands of hair in one heartbeat and sinks his teeth into Hannibal’s lower lip in the next. His touch-starved body shakes for the attention finally given to it. They fuck right there on the floor, clothes shed, some torn clear in half. It hurts and it also doesn’t, because it’s with Hannibal and because they belong together like this, violent and growling and claiming.

Afterwards, Will stands unsteadily and pulls Hannibal to his feet. Their arms are clamps around the other, and together they fall into the neatly made bed behind them, and they sleep for hours.

*

“Never stop touching me again,” Will whispers the next morning.

(Hannibal agrees and pulls the man closer.)

 _Touch, sweet touch_  
_You've given me too much to feel_  
_Sweet touch_  
_You've almost convinced me I'm real_ ([x)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wdzHJB_ndFc)


End file.
